


vienna (waits for you)

by screwsfallout



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Enjolras Is Bad At Self-Care, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Loving Grantaire, M/M, Multi, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 06:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6183670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screwsfallout/pseuds/screwsfallout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing is, Enjolras has always been Grantaire's northern star; unwavering in a sky of black that stretches on and on and on.  Grantaire doesn't believe in anything, but Grantaire believes in Enjolras.</p><p>(Alternatively: Enjolras feels some real feels and loses the plot for a second. Thankfully he has a great support system).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the anxiety

**Author's Note:**

> Hey friends, most of Enj's anxiety slash depression is based on my own, so enjoy this treasure trove of existentialism. #yourewelcome
> 
> I know usually our bff Grantaire is the one with the abstract fears, but I think Enjolras would have his own issues, considering the way he thinks and how much pressure he puts on himself. 
> 
> Thank you to [Melesmeles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Melesmeles/pseuds/Melesmeles) for being a wonderful human and a wonderful beta (even though I sort of went rogue here).

Grantaire leaves on a Sunday.

He has one huge suitcase bulging with crumbled clothes and dog eared sketchbooks, smudged with charcoal. At the bottom are three nice suits, neatly folded into garment bags.

“You’re going to be great,” Enjolras says, lips quirking.

“You don’t know that,” R counters, but he looks up at the flight board with wide, bright eyes, bouncing on the balls of his feet, then back to Enjolras. “I’m going to miss you.”

Enjolras smiles a close-mouthed smile. He puts a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder and smooths down the green sweater, picking off a small piece of fuzz.  “You’ll be fine. But if you stay any longer, you’re going to miss your flight. The security line is pretty long.”

Grantaire snorts. “You just can’t wait to get rid of me.”  

Enjolras looks at him, really looks, and tugs him in for a tight hug. “I’m so proud of you,” Enjolras whispers, lips brushing against Grantaire’s ear.  

Grantaire pulls away, eyes watery. He gives a sloppy salute. “I’ll call you when I land, okay?”

Enjolras nods.

“Bye, Chief.”

“Bye, R. Be safe.”

Enjolras watches Grantaire walk away until he waves one last goodbye before disappearing into a crowd of travelers. There’s a second where Enjolras feels his heart speed up, thumping erratically, and all he can think is _come back come back come back_.

But Enjolras has a deposition to write, so he gets in his car, goes home, and tries not to wait for the phone to ring.  
  


\--  
  


The first few weeks without Grantaire are hard, but they pass by quickly. He's busy. Like – really, no bullshit, can’t stop to think, busy.

He watches silly Snapchats from Grantaire, and takes the time to text Combeferre back (yes I’m alive, yes I’m eating) and Courfeyrac (no I’m not going to take a day off to let Jehan braid my hair) but he’s bone-tired and all the coffee in the world can’t help him.    
  


\--  
  


It’s hard being an associate at a law firm when all you want to do is change the world. ‘Our little baby lawyer,’ Courf likes to say. ‘They grow up so fast.’

The thing is, Enjolras is only 25. He's just barely a junior lawyer, which means there's a lot of things he doesn't get to do. Or rather, there are a lot of mindless projects he _does_ get to do. None of it, impactful work. At least not to Enjolras. He became a lawyer to help people and instead he sits in a file room for 10 hours.

As a law associate, he is an agent of work, not an agent of change.

Every moment Enjolras spends hunched over the copy machine scanning in client statements, there’s a thread of guilt that weaves through him. He can feel his skin pucker with small pinpoints of anxiety. There’s an internal whisper that repeats _you’re not doing enough_ again and again until it makes the space behind his eyes hurt.

So when Enjolras isn’t at work, or rallying his friends together at the Musain, he’s volunteering with a local mentor program, and clocking hours working with a mental health hotline. And when all _that_ is said and done, he can finally come home and be Grantaire’s boyfriend.

The kicker is, if Grantaire isn’t around (if he has an art show coming up and spends his nights painting manically in the studio blasting Queen and Usher and creating beautiful things) Enjolras will work himself until he drops. Literally drops. This is why he isn’t allowed to live alone.

Enjolras thinks it’s patronizing, but none of his friends really seem to care.

One time in college Combeferre left for two weeks to speak at a conference and Enjolras contracted Strep, ignored it, and ended up passing out in the snow. After the initial panic died down, Joly was dismayed. “You need a caretaker. At all times. I’m not kidding.”

Enjolras obviously didn’t take this seriously, but the next day Joly started a Google Doc calendar and forced everyone to sign up for chaperoning shifts until Combeferre returned from Wisconsin.

“Don’t you think this is a little excessive?” Bossuet had asked.

“Are you criticizing my color coding skills? Do you know how long it took me to decide what shade of purple to make your shifts? What are you trying to say?”

“Never mind, I retract my previous statement, and in other news, you are a terrific digital designer, have I told you lately that I respect and admire all that you do?”

“I hear your sarcasm, but I’m going to take that at face value.”  

Bossuet rolled his eyes fondly.

“Do you think this Google doc should have a name, though?” Joly looked up with an earnest expression.  “I think ‘Keep Enjolras Safe and Warm While Combeferre is Away’ might be a little excessive.”

“You can’t deny that it has a certain ring to it.” Bossuet had responded. “But you know who’s really good at naming things?”

“Don’t say Eponine.”

“Eponine.”

Joly glanced at the clock. “Do you think midnight is too late to call and ask?”

After much deliberation, which mostly consisted of Bossuet yelling “Yippee ki yay motherfuckers,” and Musichetta walking out the bedroom to slap him over the head, they called Eponine. They did not get a name, but they did get some very creative death threats, which was almost as fun.

A few days later, Feuilly casually mentioned it was his shift on Enjolwatch, and that was pretty much that.

The problem is, ever since Grantaire and Enjolras became boyfriends (“partners,” Enjolras will always rebuke) that level of scrutiny really hasn’t been necessary. Which means, when Enjolras starts staying at work later, eating less, logging more volunteer time at the rec center, it doesn’t raise a red flag right away.

He still goes to brunch with Combeferre on Wednesdays and trivia nights on Fridays. He looks tired, sure, but he’s present and clever as ever. It’s not until Jehan’s birthday that things really start to fall apart.

\--

Enjolras gets home that day and falls asleep on the couch, fully clothed, shoes on. He blinks awake to the jaunty ringtone Grantaire programmed in for himself. _Baby you’re a firework… Come on let your colors burst… Make ‘em go ahh, ahh, ahh…_

Waking up is like trying to crawl through a hole getting smaller and smaller until it’s almost impossible to move.

Enjolras hastily tries to find his phone, which is wedged underneath his armpit, and presses the green button. “Hullo?”

“Were you asleep?” Grantaire sounds surprised.

“No.” Enjolras takes a breath and looks around; it’s just gotten dark.

Grantaire clears his throat.

“Yes.” Enjolras relents.

“It’s 7 o’clock.”

“I know what time it is.” Enjolras snaps. There’s a telling silence. “Sorry. It’s been a long week.”

“No kidding,” Grantaire says, taking Enj’s mood in stride. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Fine.” Enjolras says. “How was the Sacramento show?”

Grantaire hesitates, but ultimately decides not to push. “It was…actually really good?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“Well, you know how it is, art is an acquired taste, blah blah, it's my duty as a cynic to set the bar low.”

Enjolras huffs, his voice warmer than before. “Talent is not an acquired taste.”

“It’s funny you say that because –“ Grantaire cuts himself off. There’s some shouting in the background, and laughing. “Yo, keep it down, I'm on the phone.“

Enjolras butts in, “No, it’s fine. I have to head out anyway.”

“Nooo, don't go, I haven't complained about how shitty gas station food is yet!“

Enjolras chuckles, “I don’t know why you're surprised."

"I always think those 7-11 hot dogs will taste better than they look."

"But they never do."

"No," Grantaire says mournfully. "They don't."

"Anyway it’s Jehan’s party tonight, and I have to hop in the shower.”

“Alright.” Grantaire breathes into the phone. “I love you.”

“You too,” Enjolras says. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Enjolras hangs up. His fingers smudge the glass, and he rubs the phone against his shirt. It’s still streaky, so he cleans it again.

He stares at the blank screen of his phone and tries to find energy to stand.

His neck aches from falling asleep against the arm of the couch. His whole body aches, really. His eyes feel swollen.

It takes ten more minutes for him to get up and another twenty to shower. He wistfully remembers his college days, where he could get himself together in five minutes flat. Now, it seems like he can never do things quickly enough.

He checks his phone while toweling off, and has 44 missed messages, all from the group chat (named by Grantaire as MOTHERFUCKIN CLIQUE), which mostly consist of party emojis and ETA’s. The last few are all directed at him:

 **Courfeyrac:** Enj when r u getting here because I’m making u do SHOTS  
**Cosette** : yaaaaas  
**Bahorel:** FUCK ya count me in  
**Courfeyrac:** WHERE R U FEARLESS LEADER WE WAIT W BATED BREATH  
**Combeferre:** Enough with the caps Courf  
**Courfeyrac:** DON’T TEMPT FATE NOW THEY MAY NEVER LEAVE  
**Courfeyrac:** LONG LIVE CAPS  
**Courfeyrac:** CAPS 5EVA  
**Combeferre:** :/  
**Eponine:** enjolras get your ass over here  
**Eponine:** they’re not letting anyone have cake until after the group picture  
**Bahorel:** CAKE.  
**Eponine:** i’m hungry  
**Courfeyrac:** She’s HANGRY  
**Courfeyrac** : ENJ R U ALIVE SHALL WE SEND OUT A SEARCH PARTY?  
**Bahorel:** Smoke signal???!!!!  
**Joly:** Bat signal?  
**Marius:** What are you guys talking about?  
**Courfeyrac:** MUST WE COME AND FETCH U???????!!!!!!!  
**Courfeyrac:** E HALLO WHERE ART THOU  
**Courfeyrac:** ?????????????????????  
**Grantaire:** Someone take me out of this group chat before I commit a muRDER DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY MISSED MESSAGES?  
**Combeferre:** Not as much as Enjolras, I’d imagine.  
**Grantaire:** AT LEAST HE IS IN THE SAME STATE AS YALL OKAY  
**Courfeyrac:** SEE R IS ONBOARD W CAPS  
  
Enjolras has to laugh. Honestly.

He texts back.

 **Enjolras:** On my way.

And then.

 **Enjolras:** I’m not doing shots.

He grabs his coat, keys, and wallet. He takes one cursory glance around the apartment, giving the couch a particularly long look, before sighing and closing the door. After a minute, Enjolras bursts back in, grabbing the neatly wrapped gift sitting on the kitchen counter.

It doesn’t take long to get to Jehan’s. 15 minutes tops. He rings in, and the caustic grind of the buzzer echoes through his skull. He’s preemptively tired. He’ll just go in, make the rounds, have a drink, and leave. As he walks up two flights, he’s already planning what work to finish tonight and what can wait until tomorrow.

Upstairs, there are pink and yellow streamers wrapped around the doorframe and sparkling unicorn cut outs all over the door. HAPPY BIRTHDAY JEHAN is scrawled in cursive on a poster, with flower doodles around the letters. Jehan answers the door, bright smile, eyes just a little hazy.

“You made it!”

“Of course, I wouldn’t miss it. Happy birthday.”

“Come in.” Jehan says, dragging out their words.

Enjolras turns and holds out his gift awkwardly. “This is for you.”

Jehan beams, and hugs him tightly. “Thank you. Is it socks?”

Enjolras laughs. “How did you know?”

“Is it really?!”

“No,” Enjolras replies. “Well. Not _just_ socks.”

Jehan goes to deposit the gift in a pile and Combeferre walks over with raised eyebrows. There’s fondness there, but also a special blend of exasperation that only Combeferre can manage.

“You look wrecked.”

Enjolras frowns, tight-lipped.

“Oh, don’t give me that look. You do.”

“Long day. Long week. It’s fine.” Enjolras runs a hand through his hair, his fingers catching in the elastic wrapped around his bun. “I need a drink.”

Combeferre and Enjolras move to the kitchen, and Enjolras grabs a beer from the fridge. He can feel Combeferre’s eyes on him.

“Stop trying to diagnose me.”

“I’m not.”

“I know you better than that.”

“I’m just trying to decide how much sleep you’ve gotten this week, but I know I won’t be happy with the answer.”

Enjolras sighs and his eyes feels heavy. “I hate when you do this.”

“What, care about you?” Combeferre tilts his head.

“No, fuss.  You’re fussing.”

“Well,” Combeferre smiles sweetly at him. “Sometimes you need to be fussed over.

Courfeyrac barrels into the kitchen, and tacklehugs Enjolras, lifting him in the air and spinning. “Where have you been? We thought you had deserted us forever!”

Enjolras looks over Courf’s head to Combeferre and rolls his eyes. Courfeyrac sets him down but pulls Combeferre over into a three person hug.

“I love you guys.” Courf whispers, grinning.

“He’s so sweet like this,” Combeferre says to Enjolras, patting Courfeyrac on the head, as if he were a docile pet.

“I’m sad we’ve never had a threesome.” Courf whispers back, following up with a pout.

“There it is.” Enjolras says, pulling away and chugging the rest of his beer.

Courfeyrac grabs Enjolras’ hand and drags him into the living room.

“SHOTS!” He shouts.

Bahorel whoops and starts pouring the vodka.

“Shots shots shots shots shots shots shots shots shots shots shots shots shots shots shots shots! EVERYBODY!”

“No, definitely not.” Enj tries to pull away. “I’m not doing this.”

Jehan looks over at him with a doleful expression, perched on the edge of a frayed armchair. “But Enjolras, it’s my birthday.”

Eponine laughs. “Hear that? Birthday rules demand it.”

“Please don’t make me do this,” Enjolras says pleadingly. He hates vodka.

Everyone ignores him. In fact, Bahorel hands him what looks to be a triple shot.

“How much is _in_ this?” Enjolras asks, aghast.

“Enough.” Bahorel replies casually.

Courfeyrac starts his favorite drinking chant. “Taaaaake a shot! Take a shot! Take a shot like we know you can. If you can’t take a shot like we know you can than you shouldn’t have a motherfucking shot in your hand, take a shot!”

By the end, everyone has joined in but Enjolras. They all shoot back the vodka. Enjolras does too, after a moment, and almost chokes. His eyes water and his face goes bright red.

“I always forget how bad you are at drinking,” Cosette says. “Here, have some water.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras sputters and takes a big gulp. He wheezes and almost spits it back out. “Jesus, Cosette, that’s not water.”

He coughs and shoves the glass away.

“Oops!” She says mischievously, but does hand him an actual glass of water this time, which Enjolras sips hesitantly at first, and then chugs.

An hour goes by, where Enjolras manages to avoid more shots but does take a deceptively sweet mixed drink from Jehan. He’s feeling warm and pliant - his hands are tingly, lips numb.

He throws an arm around Combeferre. “I’m drunk.”

Combeferre shakes his head, lips quirked. “I can tell.”

“It was an accident,” Enjolras says, hushed.

“It always is.” Combeferre replies, with mock seriousness. Although, when all's said and done, he is more than relieved to see Enjolras letting loose.

“I should - ” Enjolras huffs. “I should go home?”

“Was that a question?”

“Yes? Or - no. I should, I have to do _work_.” Enjolras’ expression is open, and for a moment he seems impossibly young.

“What is this I hear about work?” Bahorel asks, bounding over and slapping both Enjolras and Combeferre on the back.

“I have lots of it.” Enjolras says.

“I think you need another shot,” Bahorel winks, pouring tequila this time.

“I don’t think so,” Combeferre replies. He knows how Enjolras will feel about this in the morning.

“Don’t be a pussy,” Bahorel says and Enjolras’ head jolts up.

“No! We don’t use -- that’s bad language. It’s demeaning and, and it reinforces patriarchal values.”

“My bad!” Bahorel nods. “Not cool. Shoulda said, don’t be a scaredy cat. That’s good right?”

“Scaredy cat is acceptable.” Enjolras nods.

“You heard the man!” Bahorel waggles his eyebrows at Combeferre. “Don’t be a scaredy cat.”

Combeferre opens his mouth to speak, but before he can make a point, Enjolras shoots back the tequila and scrunches up his nose.

Bahorel lets out a booming, musical laugh that echoes around the room.

Combeferre takes his shot, too. Fuck it.  
  


\--  
  


The next morning, Enjolras sits at his local cafe nursing a cold cup of coffee and part of him understands why Grantaire used to stare down the throat of a bottle.

He’s been perched at the table for 3 hours, and he’s nowhere near done with work. Enjolras is Sisyphus, straining to push a boulder uphill, but doomed to keep sliding down, down, endlessly down, pebbles crushing below his feet. That’s not to say he’s given up. It’s just… hard (of course it’s hard) and he hates himself for every moment he spends feeling put out like some poor spoiled schoolboy while people’s lives hang in the balance.

“Yo, wherefore art thou Enjolras? Anyone home?”

Enjolras startles as a hand waves in front of his face. He connects the hand to an arm to a shoulder to Courfeyrac, who is staring half-amused, half-concerned at his best friend.

“Wherefore means _why,_ not where.” Enjolras responds, on reflex.

“That’s more like it,” Courf says, planting himself in the nearest chair. “I thought you were, like, trying to solve world hunger by sheer force of will or something.”

“Just thinking.” Enjolras responds, gesturing to the papers spread in front of him. “And trying to sort out… whatever this is.”

“New case?”

“Old one, actually.”

“Intrigue!” Courf exclaims, leaning in. “Do tell.”

“There’s not much to tell.” Enjolras uncaps his pen with his mouth, brow furrowed. “One of our clients is being counter-sued by her abuser.”

“Woah, what the fuck?”

“It’s complicated, a lot of the evidence is past the statute of limitations and I…you know what, nevermind.” Enjolras closes the binder. “That’s not why you’re here. What’s up, Courf?”  

“Nothing, really. R called, asked about you, so I thought I’d see what shenanigans you’d gotten into.”

“Well, first of all, I don’t get into shenanigans. That’s Bahorel’s department. Or Grantaire’s. Or _yours,_  for that matter.”

Courfeyrac laughs. “Don’t even front, you were voted ‘Most Likely to Execute a Citizen’s Arrest’ in college.”

“By you. Just by you.”

“That’s true, Combeferre voted for ‘Most Likely to Have the Longest Arrest Record.”

Enjolras sighs and glances at the clock. “Look, I have to go.”

Courfeyrac pouts. “I just got here!”

“You live two minutes away, you’ll be fine.” Enjolras tidies up the table and stands. “Oh, and tell Grantaire I don’t need anyone checking up on me.”

“No, nope, no way. I'm not getting in the middle of whatever this is.”

“Fine. I’ll tell him then,” Enjolras says, his coat snapping behind him as he walks out.

Courfeyrac groans, and garners a sympathetic look from the barista. “Kids, am I right?”  
  


\--  
  


No one hears from Enjolras for the rest of the weekend.

And look, they’re not unused to Enjolras’ brand of self-destruction. All of them have taken turns wrangling him to eat and sleep. No one assumes he’ll accept help gracefully, but usually he’ll at least _let_ them help, even if it’s with a fair amount of grumbling and groaning.

It’s times like these when the group looks to Combeferre.

Combeferre has known Enjolras the longest. Since kindergarten, in fact. They fought over red play-doh on the first day of school. By snack time they were best friends. By the by the end of their first week, they were inseparable.

It’s the start of what is a deeply meaningful relationship. Platonic, but no less important than any romantic equivalent.  
  


\--  
  


At 13, Combeferre reads Marx for the first time. 1 week later, so does Enjolras. They start eating through books, hungry, trying to understand ideas much larger than themselves. They walk around for 3 months quoting Lord Acton.

“Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely.”

Combeferre’s family has to stage a ‘fake’ intervention at dinner (with a banner and everything). Enjolras shouts that they will not be held down by tyranny. Combeferre’s Dad tells him to eat his peas.  
  


\--  
  


At 15, Enjolras misses school on a Tuesday. He doesn’t answer any calls or texts.  Combeferre worries. On Wednesday, Enjolras walks into homeroom with a split lip and a scowl. He won’t tell Combeferre anything, other than a terse confession that he fought with his Dad. Combeferre fills in the blanks.

Enjolras sleeps over that night. It’s not their first school night sleepover, but it’s the start of something. Something Combeferre doesn’t really know how to describe. Enjolras gets angry. He gets into fights, fist fights, with older boys in the alley behind the school park. He stops listening to Combeferre’s advice.

A month later, Combeferre’s Dad dies.

Combeferre doesn’t know how to hold himself together. He can’t eat. He tries, he really does, but everything tastes like gravel crunching against his teeth. He does his homework, and his chores, he goes to school, he goes to STEM club, but he doesn’t sleep. Enjolras teaches Ferre how to breathe again. He holds Combeferre’s hands when they shake. He never pushes Ferre to talk but he’s always there. That’s when they forget how to be apart.    
  


\--  
  


At 17, Enjolras washes his face in a McDonald’s bathroom. He doesn’t have a bag bursting full of clothes. He doesn’t even have a phone. What he does have is a chest cavity growing heavy with tendrils of anxiety, snaking through his stomach up to his neck, threatening to choke him.

It’s been 3 days of jumping between 24-hour gas stations and fast food restaurants, trying not to sleep on park benches while he figures out what the hell to do. He can barely keep his eyes open.

It doesn’t take long to reach Combeferre’s. A 30 minute walk, maybe. He gets to the front door and stands there. His feet are lead. He knocks.

Combeferre answers the door, face pinched, and lets out a whoosh of air when he sees Enjolras. The relief is short-lived, because Enjolras looks limp all over, with slouching shoulders and ink under his eyes.

“Can I,” Enjolras huffs, his cheeks staining pink. He refuses to meet Combeferre’s eyes. “Can I come in? Or, can I stay here?”  

Combeferre doesn’t bother answering, just pulls Enj into a tight hug. Enjolras tenses briefly before wrapping his arms around Combeferre in response.  

“I can’t go back.” He says, barely audible against Combeferre’s shoulder.

“You don’t have to,” Combeferre replies, heat in his voice. “My Mom’s been freaking out. She thought you ran away. I thought...” After a beat. “Anyway, don’t be stupid, you know you never have to ask. This is your home, too.”

“I won’t ask you to take me in, that’s not what I’m saying,” Enjolras mutters.

“Oh please,” Combeferre counters, pulling him inside. “I know what you’re _trying_ to say. Sit down.”

Enjolras sits on the familiar couch, and looks at the floor.

Combeferre waits a minute, takes him in, frowns. Opens his mouth and hesitates, but asks, “What happened?”

Enjolras’ jaw clicks. There’s a bright bruise sprawling across his cheek and creeping up into his eye socket, the edges going green and yellow like a watercolor painting. He’s holding his ribs; taking small breaths. It doesn’t take a genius to put the pieces together.

“Enj.” Combeferre tries to push hair away from the bruise. Enjolras’ whole body goes taut. “Hey, it’s okay.”

“I _know_.”

“Okay. I’m going to get my Mom.”

“No.” His voice is louder than before but Combeferre isn’t ruffled. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.” Combeferre wants to grab Enjolras’ hand. Instead he fixes him with a stern look, because he knows that’s what Enjolras needs. “You’re not.”

“Can we just go upstairs? Got to bed?”

“I want my Mom to...you’re all hunched over”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” he snaps, and has to physically force his arms away from his torso, face pinching in pain.

“Please? I’m worried.” Combeferre doesn’t have to fake the concern that snakes through his voice. Enjolras will rarely do something to help himself, but for his friends, he would do everything.

“That’s not fair,” Enjolras says, but he concedes.

Combeferre goes and comes back with his Mom, who masks her unease with a clinical look and a handful of medical supplies. She pushes down on Enjolras’ ribs and he lets out a shocked gasp of pain.

“Going to say I told you so?” Enjolras asks, voice full of flint.

“Don’t be an idiot.” Combeferre replies, frowning. Later that night, Enjolras lies next to Combeferre, stiff as a board. He stares out the window into the inky blackness. There’s nothing to see but he can’t help looking out, away away away.

The next morning, Enjolras cries into Combeferre’s chest, silent but shaking. Combeferre hugs him tight, wishing he could glue all the pieces of Enjolras back together.  
  
  
\--  
  


A week after Jehan’s party, Enjolras walks into the Musain for trivia and his teeth are clamped together so hard his cheeks ache. He's fine, he is, but jeez he's spent. Every inch of him is puckered. His brain is beating against his skull, pulsing, a steady rhythm that makes him squint.

He doesn't want to be around people right now.

The gang's all there, rowdy and laughing. Joly is squashed between Bossuet and Musichetta. Marius and Cosette are chatting lowly, foreheads pushed together. Feuilly waves at Enjolras, red hair peeking out of a knitted beanie that was once Grantaire’s.

"Hi," Enjolras says, sliding into their booth. His knee brushes against Jehan's and he instinctively pulls away. "Sorry I'm late."

"Thought you might not make it," Combeferre says, some tension easing around his eyes.

"I was -"

"Working late," Courfeyrac finishes. His tone is light and teasing but Enjolras knows Courf is studying his face.

"Good timing, anyway, because we're just about to start." Ep says.

In all honesty, Enjolras finds it hard to focus for the first half of the game. His tongue sits limply behind his teeth, and his eyes roam the bar, unfocused. Feuilly's beer is dripping condensation, and it slides toward him across the lacquered table. The wall behind Bahorel is chipped, with quarter sized holes of brick peeking out from under mossy green paint. The quiz master keeps clicking and unclicking her pen.

Enjolras absently picks at his cuticles, which are rough and peaking like tiny mountain ranges.

Musichetta is laughing and everyone starts laughing and it's loud. Jehan’s knee bumps against Enjolras again. The quizmaster plays a song for extra points and people start singing.

Enjolras stands - abruptly.

"Restroom," he chokes out tersely before booking it to the closet-sized bathroom in the corner. He breathes heavily, hunched over the sink.

 _You can do this_ , he thinks.

 _I can't do this_ , he thinks.

It's confusing for Enjolras, because there's nothing actually wrong. He misses Grantaire, of course, but he can handle it. He's working more, which means he's tired, but he's no stranger to pushing past exhaustion. There's no reason for him to be gasping over a chipped porcelain sink, holding on to the edges like handlebars.

It’s hard to take in air. His chest hurts.

 _Pull yourself together,_  he thinks. _Go out and talk to your friends._

But he can barely raise his head. It's like he's wrapped in a layer of thin gauze, trying to breathe through the netted fabric but getting mostly warm carbon monoxide. For a second, he's worried he'll choke on his own tongue.

There's a knock on the door.

"Enjolras, you're about to miss a question about Robespierre." Combeferre's voice is a surprise. Enjolras recognizes the intent, there. ‘Are you okay’ goes unsaid. Enjolras hates being asked that because he's never able to say no, even when he wants to. Even when he needs to.

"You know how I love to talk about Robespierre." Enjolras manages to choke out, hoping he sounds normal enough.

He squares his shoulders and opens the door. Combeferre takes one look, and pushes him back into the bathroom.

Enjolras finds himself sitting heavily on the toilet seat, Combeferre standing above him, steady but not calm. He puts his hands on Enjolras' shoulders but Enj flinches away.

"Sorry, sorry,” Enjolras says.

"I should have asked," Combeferre replies, slowly pulling his hands away. "What do you need?"

"Nothing, I'm fine."

"Enjolras."

"I don't know." He says, voice unsteady. "I don't know what's happening."

"You're having an anxiety attack," Combeferre says.

"I'm not having an anxiety attack," Enjolras counters, his chest aching sharply. He leans forward, forearms against his thighs.  Combeferre watches Enjolras' chest heave.

"Let's go home," Combeferre says.

"I need a minute."

Combeferre nods but itches to take Enjolras' pulse; to just touch him.

After a while there's a knock on the door and Enjolras pales further.

"Have you fallen in," comes Bahorel's voice. "Because I really have to piss."

"Enjolras, do you think we can-"

"I said, I need a _minute_ ," Enjolras’ voice is full of broken glass, jagged and sharp and cold.

"Yo," Bahorel bangs on the door. "Is there somewhere else you two can host the super secret boyscout club because I wasn't kidding, I'm gunna pee myself."

Enjolras shoots up, movements jerky, and wrenches open the bathroom door, narrowly missing Combeferre’s nose.  Combeferre follows quickly, leaving a wide-eyed Bahorel staring after.

"Enjolras," Combeferre calls out, earning the attention of the bar.

Enjolras doesn't stop. He strides out of the Musain, hoping for fresh air, but getting only the humidity of early August. Combeferre is close behind.

"I’m going home," Enjolras says lowly.

"No you're not.”

Enjolras starts to protest. He can't go back inside, his skin crawls even thinking about it, but Combeferre shakes his head.

"Come back with me."

 _I don't want you to be alone_ , goes unsaid.

"No, Ferre."

"It wasn't a question." Combeferre sends a quick text to the group saying they'll see everyone tomorrow.

"C’mon," Combeferre says, gently this time. “Let’s make chocolate milkshakes and watch HGTV.”

“I’m tired.” Enjolras replies.

“I have some melatonin pills at home. Please, Enjolras. I’ll sleep better if you’re with me tonight.”

There’s a tense moment of silence, until Enjolras responds.

“Okay,” he says, picking at his nails. “Okay.”  
  


\---  
  


The next morning, Enjolras opens the door to his apartment and walks in. It's quiet. He doesn't hear the neighbors shuffling around upstairs, or the wind whistling, or errant car horns. He doesn’t hear anything.

He goes into his room. The curtains are already pulled shut. Some sunlight filters through, casting abstract patterns on the floor. Enjolras sits on his bed and then lays down on his stomach, gripping a pillow.

His phone goes off.

 _Baby you're a firework._..

Enjolras grabs it, the cool glass fitting neatly into his palm. Grantaire's wry smile flashes across the lock screen. He lets the song play out and turns over, staring at the ceiling.

He's tired. He closes his eyes.


	2. the depression

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [Melesmeles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Melesmeles/pseuds/Melesmeles) and [juliabaccari](http://archiveofourown.org/users/juliabaccari/pseuds/juliabaccari) who are both lovely and supportive humans and beta'd this for me. They both dealt with, what is frankly, an ALARMING amount of excessive punctuation, so they deserve all the praise. Also, my poor [melesmeles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Melesmeles/pseuds/Melesmeles) is bed-ridden, so please think happy thoughts for her. 
> 
> A few quick warnings: this chapter deals with a prolonged depressive episode. There is mention of a teenage death. There are also a few mentions about potential suicidal ideation. Please please please avoid if any of this will be triggering. 
> 
> Much of this is culled from my own personal experience, but everyone feels depression and anxiety differently so, yanno, take it with a grain of salt. I'm actually posting this right now bc I can't stop thinking about space and it's f u c k i n g m e u p. If you, too, have crippling anxiety about pandemics or what happens after death or the great expanse of the universe HIT ME UP.

The next morning, Enjolras calls in sick to the office. He doesn’t answer texts from his friends. He doesn’t eat. He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t work.

He does sit up, reading articles about Gravitational Waves and thinking about the vast, unknowable stretches of the universe.

His lungs feel strained, like he spent the night smoking too many cigarettes.

Enjolras opens his phone and his finger hovers above Grantaire’s name. He bites the inside of his cheek, and squeezes his eyes shut. Locks the phone screen. Opens it again.

He finally presses down and hears the phone ring and ring and ring.

It goes to voicemail.

“Hey R. It’s me. Just wanted to see how - just wanted to see how you’re doing. I got your texts...I’m really glad the show went well.”

Enjolras pauses.

“I miss you.”

He takes another breath.

“Anyway, you’re busy. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Enjolras hangs up. He makes two tight fists, fingers digging into his palms. Later, he turns his phone on silent, and presses his face into a pillow. He thinks, _just breathe_. In and out. In and out. In and out.

\--  
  
Enjolras wakes up to a few texts from Combeferre.

 **Combeferre:** Don’t freak but  
**Combeferre:** Courf invited everyone to your place for movie night??  
**Combeferre:** He’s worried  
**Combeferre:** I can tell him no  
**Combeferre:** Or just Courf and I can come?

Enjolras sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He grimaces as his fingers come away waxy.

 **Enjolras:** It’s okay.

Combeferre starts to text back and Enjolras watches the three animated dots pulse back and forth.

 **Combeferre:** Are you sure?  
**Enjolras:** Yeah.

Enjolras isn’t sure, not really. He feels a bit like a mop, all wrung out, damp and grey.  But he knows this will make Courfeyrac feel better. He knows what it's like to feel helpless when someone else is struggling.

He tosses his phone back on the bed, and stands up to shower. It’s not so hard, today, to get under the water. He turns it on hot so steam fills the bathroom, and he stands under the scalding water with his head tilted back. His muscles ache under the spray.

He manages to get out, brush his teeth, and get dressed. The apartment’s mostly clean, which Enjolras is thankful for, but the air is stale. He opens a window. It’s the first time he’s pulled back the curtains in two weeks. The whole apartment seems warmer.

Enjolras finally feels like he’s found a bit of solid ground, and that’s when he hears the scraping of a key in the door.

“Enj,” Courfeyrac strides in, grinning widely, and wraps an arm around Enjolras’ shoulders. “Hi. How are you? Your hair looks really shiny today.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras says, eyebrows raised high. “Courfeyrac?”

“Yes, muffin?”

“You’re lucky ‘Ferre texted me.”

“Don’t be mad, I wanted to surprise you.”

“I’m not mad,” Enjolras says. He means it. “But I would’ve been if this was a surprise.”

“The cavalry has arrived!” Bahorel shouts a few minutes later, walking in with a resigned Joly over his shoulder.

“I’m not even going to ask,” Enjolras says, mouth twitching up.

The rest of the gang fills in, taking spots around Enjolras’ living room with ease. Feuilly lays out a few blankets, and Cosette and Marius curl up at the foot of the couch.

Eponine strides over and plops a stack of DVDs into Enjolras’ hands. “Pick one. Not Hunchback of Notre Dame.”

“The Lion King!” Musichetta calls out.

“Mulan!” Jehan pipes in, plopping their feet on Courf’s lap.

“Are you out of your mind? Obviously Tangled.” Bahorel counters. “Wouldn’t be the first time I watched it this week, and it won’t be the last.”

“What.” Eponine asks, deadpan. “Why? Why, when you could have watched the new Game of Thrones episode?”

Bahorel shrugs. “Too much stress, Ep.”

“So you’d rather just watch white people sing at each other for two hours?”

“Yeah, pretty much. Not fucking joking, I want to be proposed to on a boat with fire lanterns. Someone write that the fuck down.”

“What the fuck.” Eponine replies. “What - the fuck.”

Enjolras hovers at the back of the couch, flipping slowly through the DVD’s. His friends’ voices fill in around him, and he’s able to take a deep breath for the first time in days.

Combeferre comes over and stands at Enjolras’ side. “How are you feeling?”

“Alright,” Enj answers absently.

Combeferre bites at his lower lip. It's a habit he's mostly kicked, but it reappears when he's tired or stressed. Or worried, as it were.

“Have you thought anymore about what we talked about?”

Enjolras finally looks up. “You don't have to whisper.”

“Thought you might appreciate some discretion.”

“It's fine. But I'm feeling better. Really, ‘Ferre.” Enjolras smiles, his forehead crinkling.

“You look it. But you know, it's not just for periods of anxiety, or depression, or anything. Honestly, it's healthy for everyone to have a therapist.”

“I know that,” Enjolras chuckles. “Because I've _had_ a therapist.”

“You know what I mean. It's not just for when you're struggling.”

“I'll think about it, alright?”

Combeferre rolls his eyes, fondly. “Fine. Now what are we watching? My vote’s on Frozen.”

“Frozen it is.” Enjolras declares.

The whole room groans. Combeferre grins.  
  
\--

The days following feel manic, though Enjolras would never use that word. It’s not clinical mania, really. It’s more - the lightness of being able to wake up with one alarm again.

Enjolras walks to work and tries to log everything that makes it easier to take a full breath: budding yellow tulips in fresh, dark soil. The smell of gasoline. And then, in the office: the way a new ballpoint pen writes on notebook paper. Black coffee.

Enjolras answers his friends’ texts, and eagerly speaks to Grantaire at night. He eats breakfast. He sweeps the floor, and reads The Atlantic, and resumes his mentoring shifts.

And should he still see a doctor? Yes, probably. But every day is easier. He doesn’t need medication anymore, he tells himself.

And yeah, alright, part of him is ashamed. Enjolras knows better than to judge anyone for medication, even himself. There’s nothing wrong with having treatment, whether it’s therapy, or pills, or - anything really. But then, the part of him that barely takes antibiotics, that works through migraines and refuses sleep aids, that part of him is dangerous. It whispers through him, warps Enjolras’ idea of personal strength, and generally fucks with his ability to be logical about taking any sort of anti-depressant or anti-anxiety.

And anyway, he’s getting better, now. That's enough, isn't it?  
  
\--  
  
Enjolras finds out his mentee dies of an overdose on Saturday. When he reports for his afternoon shift at the community center, the program director pulls him aside and explains everything in hushed tones. Enjolras’ vision shutters and statics. His ears rush. He breaks a pencil between his fingers, wood bending and then snapping against his palm.

It had been a bad day already. Hard to get up. Hard to shower. Hard to shove food down his throat without tasting sandpaper.

But he finds out about Louis that afternoon. And that’s when things get worse.  
  
\--

There’s no reason to get out of bed on Sunday.

There’s no reason to get out of bed on Monday.

He calls himself out of work. Another flu, he says. It’s the best he can come up with. When Grantaire phones that night, he let’s it ring twice and then sends it to voicemail.

On Tuesday, Grantaire asks if everything is okay. Enjolras texts back yes.

On Wednesday, Enjolras rolls over and holds his breath long enough that he can feel his lungs ache. He doesn’t look at his phone.

He sleeps through Thursday entirely.

Friday, Enjolras moves from his bed to the couch. It doesn’t feel like a victory.

His eyes ache. His stomach groans and rumbles. He sips at water and wonders where his phone is.

And he thinks. He thinks about Louis. He thinks about death and dying and what it feels like, to die. He thinks about what comes after.

He thinks about how small he is. About the stars, and the galaxies, and the universe; sprawling and deep. And he tries to sleep again. To shut off his brain, to shut down his thoughts. He wants to breathe. He wants to make dinner, to text his friends, to hear Grantaire’s voice.

But right now, all Enjolras can do is squeeze his eyes shut and count. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. And up and up and up, until he loses his train of thought. Or until he finally falls asleep again, mouth slack, fingers curled into fists.  
  
\--

That night, Combeferre lets himself into Enj’s apartment. There’s a burst of warm air; stale and stuffy.

“Enjolras?” He calls out, voice even, throat tight.

Enjolras hadn’t answered his friends in 3 days.  At first, Combeferre didn’t realize, exhausted from a week of long shifts at the hospital. Grantaire had texted the group chat on Thursday, and again that morning, panicking when no one else had heard from Enj.

Combeferre, for his part, was just getting off a double, and hadn’t even looked at his phone. He was ending the shift when R called.

“Grantaire? How are you?” ‘Ferre asked, absently trying to undo a cord on his scrubs.

“Have you spoken to Enjolras?”

Combeferre felt a chill run down his spine. “No, not since Tuesday. Did something happen?”

“I don’t know.” Grantaire’s voice was wet. “He won’t answer me. I’ve left him messages, I’ve texted, but nothing. I thought he was just working or mad at me maybe or, I dunno, but now I’m going out of my fucking mind. I literally bought a plane ticket for tonight, I - God, can you go check on him?”

“Yes, of course, I’ll go right now.” Combeferre put on a coat, not bothering to even change out of his scrubs.

“No one else has talked to him either. What if he - fuck. Should I call the police? I mean - how has _no one_ talked to him?!”

“It’s okay, I’m going over. Do you need me stay on the phone?”

“No...I mean, maybe? Yeah, just keep me on the phone. Jesus Christ, I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

So Combeferre had rushed over, running a red light, and parking illegally in front of a hydrant, just to get upstairs as quickly as possible.

Now, he’s standing in the apartment doorway with a boulder in his stomach and acid at the back of his throat.

“Enjolras,” he calls again. He still has the phone to his ear. Grantaire’s breath is raspy and loud.

There’s rustling on the couch and Enjolras sits up. His eyes are red-rimmed.  His lips are cracked.

“I’m not feeling very well,” Enjolras says, hollowly.

“Grantaire? He’s here, he’s alright.”

“Oh, thank fuck!” Grantaire replies, voice frantic and tinny through the speaker.

“I’ll call you back,” Combeferre says. “I know you need to talk to him. But let me figure out what’s going on.”

“Shit, it’s really bad, isn’t it? Okay. Okay, okay.”

Combeferre can hear Grantaire start to move around, frantic.

“R wait…Enjolras, Grantaire’s on the phone…” Combeferre walks over and sits next to his best friend. Enjolras looks at Combeferre. He takes the phone and puts it up to his ear.

“Hi,” Enjolras says. That one word takes a lot of effort. It rips through his throat.

“Hi. Hi. Are you okay? Nevermind, I know you’re not -” There’s a choked sound from the other end of the line. “I’m coming home tonight, okay? I’m on my way to the airport right now.”

“Don’t.” Enjolras says. “You don’t have to.”

“Yes, I do.”

“I’m fine,” Enjolras says. His voice sounds shredded, hollow and low.

“I’m really scared right now. Don’t pull that shit - you sound like - you sound horrible.”

“I’m sorry...”

“No, no, don’t apologize.” Grantaire hesitates. “Can you put Combeferre on?”

Enjolras wants to argue that he’s not a child but the words won’t come. Instead he hands over the phone and starts picking at his nail beds.

Combeferre walks to the bathroom and closes the door.

“It’s going to be okay” Combeferre says, even as his hands begin to shake.

“Okay?? He sounds like he’s going to chew a bunch of pills.”

Combeferre winces.

“R, it’s going to be okay, really. Don’t do anything crazy, alright? Pack for your flight and I’ll have someone pick you up.”

“Don’t leave him alone?”

“Of course I won’t.”

“Thanks.” Grantaire hangs up abruptly and Combeferre leans over the sink. He takes a few deep breaths.

When he’s composed enough to walk back into the living room, Enjolras is sitting in exactly the same spot. Combeferre grabs his medical bag, and squats down.

“Enjolras. Look at me.” He does.

“I need you to be completely honest. Have you had any thoughts about -”

“Don’t.”

Combeferre continues. “Have you had thoughts about self-harm? Or suicide?”

“I’m not going to answer that.” Enjolras says, quietly.

“If you don’t tell me, I’m going to take you to the hospital.” Combeferre replies, hushed as well. “Because I’m really worried right now, okay? So please give me an answer.”

Enjolras looks back at his hands. The lines on his palms swirl into each other.

“I’m serious.” Combeferre’s voice shakes and it makes Enjolras’ head jerk up.

“...No.”

Combeferre opens his mouth to push back.

“No,” Enjolras says, louder this time. “I haven’t.”

“Okay,” Combeferre says, letting out a short, relieved breath. “Okay. When’s the last time you ate?”

Enjolras hesitates, then lies. “Yesterday.”

“When’s the last time you had any water.”

“This morning.”

Combeferre takes E’s hand and pinches the skin, watching it pucker white and peak, before slowly receding down flat again.

“I think you need an IV.” Combeferre says.

“No!” Enjolras’ eyes widen. “Sorry. Sorry, but no. I’ll drink whatever you want me to. I don’t need an IV.”

“Are you dizzy? Nauseous?”

Enjolras shakes his head no.

Combeferre stands and goes the fridge. It opens with a gust, and blows cold air into his face. He closes his eyes and takes a few more grounding breaths so he doesn’t burst into tears right there in the kitchen.

It’s bare bones inside the fridge: a half-full Britta, some baking soda, an expired carton of eggs, and a few tupperware of leftovers.

Combeferre sighs, and mixes together some sugar and salt in water, bringing it back to the couch. Enjolras makes a face, but sips at it, and then gulps it down.

Combeferre sits.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Enjolras says.

“It’s okay.” Combeferre replies.

“No, it’s not,” Enjolras says, lips curling. Every part of him feels dull, like he’s removed from the world by a thin, grey membrane.

“What can I do?” Combeferre asks.

Enjolras shakes his head.

Combeferre moves forward and hugs Enj, pulling him in by the shoulders and squeezing tight. Enjolras hugs back but starts to tremble, every part of him rattling. They hold onto each other.

Brothers, with hearts that are too heavy to house alone.

\--

Grantaire gets on a red-eye.

He wants to ask for a vodka soda. He does ask for a vodka soda, actually, and it sits in front of him the entire plane ride. He doesn’t touch it.

That's what Grantaire would call a setback: it's also what Enjolras would call progress.

He lands and turns on his phone immediately. There's already a text from Courfeyrac, saying the car is out front.

Grantaire slings his carry-on canvas bag over one shoulder and all but jogs outside, searching the line of cars. He spots Courf's green Honda and pops in, smiling genuinely when he sees Courfeyrac and Jehan.

"It's good to see you, R." Jehan says, turning around and grabbing Grantaire's hand, squeezing once.

"How is he?” Grantaire asks, immediately.

Jehan sighs. Courfeyrac chews on his lower lip, shoulders hunched. He looks guilty, Grantaire thinks with a needling flash of anger.

"Combeferre’s still over there," Jehan says.

Grantaire nods.

Jehan puts their feet up on the dashboard, Doc Martens leaving a small, black scuff mark. The car goes quiet except for the steady thrum of tires on pavement.

“Why didn’t anyone call me.”

“We didn't want to scare you,” Jehan says.

“Well now I’m pretty fucking scared,” R snaps back. “How did no one realize he was off the grid?”

Courfeyrac taps on the steering wheel with force. “We thought he was getting better. He _was_ getting better.”

Grantaire wants to lash out. He feels a poisonous stream of words bubble up in his throat, but he swallows them down.

“I’m so sorry,” Jehan says, after a long string of silence.

“I know.” Grantaire replies. “Me too.”

\--

Grantaire walks into the apartment, and finds Combeferre bent over the sink, washing dishes.

"Hey," Grantaire says, throwing his bag onto the couch. "Is he sleeping?"

"Yes,” Combeferre says. “Just dropped off.”

Grantaire nods and leans against counter. Combeferre turns off the faucet and dries his hands. “I'm glad you’re back.”

“Yeah.” There’s a tense silence.  “I wish someone would’ve called me sooner."

Combeferre's lips thin.

"I just don't understand how he could've gotten this bad with no one noticing," Grantaire says, and he can't quite keep the blame from seeping into his voice.

"Of course we noticed."

"Then why didn't you _do_ anything?"

Combeferre pulls his glasses off and pinches his nose. "Well, we obviously tried to."

"You tried? What’s that even supposed to mean?" Grantaire accuses.

"We're not at school anymore, I’m not with him every day." Combeferre replies, frustration oozing into his words and undulating his normally even tone. "What did you want me to do, tie him to the bed?"

"If that's what it took? Sure, yes."

"Don't blame me because you feel guilty, Grantaire."

R deflates. "Fuck, sorry. I just, I leave for a few weeks and he's completely lost it...I mean what the fuck?"

"I know." Combeferre says. There's a long period of quiet; it sits heavy between them.

"You can go home if you want, I'm sure you're exhausted."

"I am, but..."

Grantaire gives him a knowing look.

Combeferre acquiesces with a nod, shoulders sagging. "I'll keep my phone on. Let me know if you need anything."

He gives R a quick hug and sees himself out. Grantaire latches the lock on the door and walks into the bedroom. Enjolras is tucked under the covers, arms wrapped around a pillow. Asleep, he looks very young.

Grantaire wants to wake him. He wants to smother Enjolras with affection, he wants to kiss the crook of E's neck, up and up and up until he finds those impossibly chapped, sweet lips. Grantaire wants to shake Enjolras, wants to whisper to him, say "I'm here, you idiot," wants to hold Enjolras' hands in his hands.

The first time Grantaire ever laid eyes on Enjolras, he was sipping coffee at the Musain in college. Enjolras was gesticulating wildly, hair falling into his face, full of passion - an otherworldly energy. From that very first moment, Grantaire had wanted him. There's never been another day that Grantaire hasn't felt _want_ around Enjolras; a burning desire to know him, to touch him, to praise him, to love him.

Grantaire shuts the door quietly but Enjolras stirs, disoriented for a moment, and rubs at his eyes.

"Combeferre?"

"Yeah, no." Grantaire’s lips quirk up in, what he hopes is, a reassuring look. "Hi, it’s me. You look awful."

"I told you not to come," Enjolras says, sitting up, spine straightening.

"I know. Does wonders for my confidence, too, thanks for that."

Instead of bristling at the comment like normal, Enjolras just sighs and looks away from Grantaire.

"Shit, sorry," R says, "Didn't mean to..." He waves his hand. “Guilt you or...hey, Enj, Enjolras, hey..."

Enjolras is taking noticeably small breaths.

"What's wrong?" Grantaire asks, shucking off his sneakers and sitting on the bed.

"Nothing," Enjolras answers.

"Enj - C’mon." He means to say it gently, but it comes out haggard instead.

"No I mean, _nothing_ , there is nothing wrong, there's no reason for me to be - " Enjolras cuts himself off. “There’s no reason for any of this.”

"Ah," Grantaire says, softly.

"I told you, you shouldn't have come."

"Do you really want me to leave?"

"No!" Enjolras snakes his fingers around Grantaire's wrist.

Grantaire is quiet. He doesn't know what to say. Well, that's not true. He has a lot he _wants_ to say, but nothing that will help. Nothing that will make Enjolras feel any better.

"Do you ever..." Enjolras starts and stops. "Do you...you've always said you don't believe in anything, R.

"Shit. Don't, I mean, don't use me as some sort of example."

"I'm not."

"I mean I'm a fucking wreck most of the time, I'm not exactly a philosophical role model."

"Can you not," Enjolras tenses, "be condescending right now."

“Enjolras."

"I'm serious."

"Alright, look, I'm sorry, okay - "

"I know," Enjolras cuts him off. "Nevermind, you had a long flight, we should just go to sleep."

"No." Grantaire pulls Enjolras in tight, so his back is resting against R's chest. "No, tell me what's going on."

Enjolras picks at his cuticles, watching little speckles of blood pop up against the raw flesh.

"Hey, what were you going to say?" Grantaire prods again.

"I don't know if I can do this anymore.” Enjolras says.

For a moment, Grantaire’s heart stops cold in his chest.

“I don't think," Enjolras picks at his thumb and tears away a whole slice of skin. "That I'm making a difference. Or that I ever really will."

“But you don’t want to…” Grantaire doesn’t know how to say it.

“I’m not _suicidal_.” Enjolras bites the inside of his cheek, which is rough and fits easily between his teeth, a mountain of flesh that bleeds and tangs at the back of his throat.

"Well it sounds like you might be, a little bit.” Grantaire says tentatively.

“I don’t want to kill myself,” Enjolras snaps out. “I’m just trying to say that I’m tired.”

“Okay. Did something happen?"

"No."

"Okay.” Grantaire tries to think of something else to say.

“Louis - the boy I was working with at Cedar Hill. He OD’d.”

“Is he alright?”

“No,” Enjolras answers. “He died.”

“Jesus.” Grantaire pauses and runs a hand up Enjolras’ shoulder and down his arm. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. He was young, wasn’t he?”

“Yeah. Fourteen.”

"Well..." Grantaire says. "Well. Fuck."

Enjolras' skin is cool against Grantaire's collar bone but there is a canyon between them.

“I tried so hard to get through to him and now he’s dead. What am I doing, Grantaire? Maybe you were right. Maybe it’s all useless.” He sounds shattered.

The thing is, Enjolras has always been Grantaire's northern star; unwavering in a sky of black that stretches on and on and on.

Grantaire doesn't believe in anything, but Grantaire believes in Enjolras.

"You prove me wrong everyday." Grantaire says, softly, threading his fingers through Enjolras' hair. "You make a difference to me. To our friends. And your clients. You help so many fucking people, Enj."

"Temporarily," Enjolras replies, voice desperate.

“What do you mean?”

"I mean, what does it matter if we’re all going to die anyway. And I don’t mean, us, you and me. I mean - the Earth. Civilization. The entire universe, just, collapsing." He picks at his thumb again and a watery puddle of blood spreads across his skin.

"Hey, stop that," Grantaire grabs Enj’s hand.

"Well," Enjolras says, as if he's issued a challenge.

"I guess, technically, yeah. That's probably...right." Grantaire sighs. "But haven't you always said that what happens _now_ matters?"

"Do you actually believe that?" Enjolras asks.

Grantaire doesn't answer.

"R, I don't - if we're all gone, in the end? And there's nothing preserved, not culture or books or history. Like we've never even _been_ here. Then what was it worth? What was I -" Enjolras is breathing unevenly. “What was I worth?”

“Christ.”

“I’m sorry, I probably sound like - like, I don’t know,” Enjolras lets out rough imitation of a laugh. “I can’t stop _thinking_.”

“You need to slow down,” Grantaire whispers, and lays them both back against the pillows.

“I don’t know how.” Enjolras’ breath hitches. “I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

Enjolras buries his face in his hands. Grantaire gently pries them away.

“You need to sleep, Enjolras. What can I do?”

Enjolras starts to cry. Silent tears, that burn over his eyes and down his cheeks, pooling on Grantaire’s shoulder. “I don’t want to think anymore.”

“Okay,” Grantaire says. His fingers are tingling. If he’s never known what it meant to ache for someone else, he does now. Every part of him is pulsing. He’s terrified.

Enjolras is falling apart. And he’s never been very good at fitting things back together.

\--

The next morning, Enjolras wakes up and gets in the shower. Halfway through, he realizes what’s happened and smiles in spite of himself. He makes a low, pleased noise. It doesn’t last long, though. His expression sours seconds later.

Enjolras is mad at himself for finding success in this one small thing.

The door cracks open, and a wave of chilled air spills  in and laps at his skin.

“Mind if I join you?” Grantaire asks. He sounds tentative. Not too long ago, R would have teased and flirted. Not too long ago, Enjolras would have flirted back.

Now Enjolras just squirts some shampoo into his open palm and shrugs.

“If you want,” he answers woodenly. “But I’m almost done.”

“I can wait.” Grantaire replies.

\--

The next few days are a blur. Having Grantaire home is like suddenly gaining a life jacket. He’s no longer drowning, suffocating below a sea of static. Only - things feel worse on the surface.

He manages to call work and let them know what's actually going on. He's mortified, having to explain himself. He wants to make another excuse: someone died, he was in an accident. But Enjolras knows better. He won't stigmatize mental illness so he can feel less embarrassed. And anyway, he’s lucky that his boss jumps at the chance to be supportive. So many people wouldn’t get the chance to explain themselves - so many people would get fired outright, for missing all this work.

His boss tells him to take three weeks off. Paid leave, she says, until he’s ready to come back. Enjolras should be grateful, but instead he feels guilt settle around him like an old coat.

It all comes down to this: Enjolras doesn't know who he is when he's not in control.

And there’s nothing for him to do. Grantaire won’t let him work on any case files, so he sits in front of the TV watching House Hunters for hours. Enjolras is not used to relaxing. His temper seems to get shorter every day.

It's later in the week when things come to a head.

“Hey, stop, I can take care of that.” R says, walking into the kitchen and taking a pack of chicken right out of Enjolras’ hands.

“It’s fine.”

“No really, sit down, I got it.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras’ voice is steely. “I can do it.”

“But you don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t have to. I want to, alright?”

Grantaire hesitates, and Enjolras feels his right eyelid start to twitch.

“I’m not going to have a breakdown because I cooked us dinner.” Enjolras says, as patiently as he can manage.

“I didn’t say you were.” R counters, arms crossed.

“You didn’t have to say anything,” Enjolras replies. “Everytime I lift a finger, you act like I’m going to fall apart.”

“No I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Fine. What do you want? To make dinner? Okay, here.” Grantaire shoves the chicken back at Enjolras. “Go wild.”

Enjolras tosses the package on the counter. “Actually, I want you to stop whispering when you call Combeferre. I can hear you, the apartment isn’t that big.”

“Fine,” Grantaire says again, voice jagged. “That all?”

“I want you to let me work again. You can’t keep treating me like a toddler. This is my _life_ , R.”

“I’m just trying to help.”

“Well, stop it.” Enjolras snaps.

“Are you kidding me?”

Enjolras’ expression goes dark. “Obviously not.”

“I’m acting like this because you got really sick, Enjolras. You scared the hell out of me. You scared the hell out of _everyone_. It’s a wonder no one took you to the hospital, you know that right?”

Enjolras stays silent. Grantaire continues, louder.

“I’m still scared you’re going to do something horrible, hurt yourself, or disappear in the middle of the night, I don’t know.”

“I’m not.” Enjolras says. And then again, softer. “I wouldn’t.”

“You get this look in your eyes sometimes. Like you don’t care what happens to you. I know that look. I’ve seen it in the mirror.”

Enjolras feels like someone has scraped their fingernails across his lungs. His chest aches from the inside.

“Fuck, I’m sorry. But look - you have to give yourself some time, okay?”

Enjolras takes a deep breath. Holds it. Counts to five. Releases.

“I don’t want to fight with you,” Enjolras says. “I’m just sick of feeling useless.”

Grantaire hates the look on Enjolras’ face. He wants to punch something. Instead, he walks over in two large strides and pulls Enjolras into a hug.  “You are not useless.”

Enjolras tenses, and Grantaire runs his fingers through Enjolras’ curls.

“I can’t just sit on the couch,” Enjolras says, all the heat out of his voice. “I know you’re right, about work. But I’m getting claustrophobic. I feel like I’m on house arrest. I’ve only left to see Anne, and that’s even worse than doing nothing.”

“I thought you liked her?” Grantaire asks.

“I do like her, but she’s my therapist, R. And I’m - not exactly an open book.” Enjolras pulls away. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“I’m serious. I’m a mess, and you shouldn’t have to deal with it.”

“Do you remember what you did for me? When I stopped drinking?”

Enjolras doesn’t say anything, but he reaches out to grab Grantaire’s hand, and squeezes.

“I remember.” Grantaire continues. “So, please let me do this for you.”

“We’re quite a pair,” Enjolras replies, the corner of his lips twitching up.

“Yeah, no kidding.” Grantaire jumps up to sit on the counter and Enjolras moves to stand between his legs. Grantaire cocks his head, eyes squinting with thought. “Hey, you know how I’m supposed to fly back for the LA show on Monday?”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, rolling his eyes. “You even got me a babysitter.”

“Combeferre would smack you for that.” Grantaire laughs. “But what if I cancelled my flight.”

“No - are you kidding? Absolutely not! This is a huge deal, I won’t let you blow it off.”

“I know, I know, calm down. I mean, what if we drove. The two of us. We always talk about taking a road trip.”

Enjolras taps his fingers on Grantaire’s thigh and considers it.

“Or - not. Sorry, that’s like, a big thing to ask and I’m the one bothering you to take it easy.”

“No! No, I want to. I want to get out of here. That sounds great. It sounds...really, really great. Except you’ve already bought your ticket.”

“I don’t care about that, the gallery is paying for it.”

“I care! It’s still a waste!”

Grantaire grins, because Enjolras finally sounds like himself.

“I’ll call and get it refunded. Or - I don’t know, maybe they can transfer it to someone else. You know I hate flying anyway. C’mon. Say yes.”

Enjolras looks at the man in front of him, this talented, brilliant, caring man, who would give up everything just to see Enjolras happy.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s do it.”

\--

Enjolras and Grantaire have been on the road for about two hours, and they’re finally out of the city.

Enjolras puts his feet up on the dashboard and grins impishly at Grantaire.

“Well, well, well. Look at that,” R says, joy twining through his words, rich and inflected. “Someone’s breaking car rule number 12.”

“There are no car rules,” Enjolras counters.

“I seem to remember being scolded a few times.”

“Revisionist history. Anyway, it’s _my_ car so I can put my feet up if I want to.”

Grantaire reaches over and grabs Enjolras’ hand, rubbing his thumb up and down E’s wrist.

“For the next…” R looks over at the radio clock. “39 hours, you can do whatever you want as far as I’m concerned.”

“Huh.” Enjolras responds. “Interesting.”

“I just opened a can of worms didn’t I?”

Enjolras continues, as if he hadn’t heard. “So - we can listen to Hamilton?”

“Sure,” R says, even though he’s heard the cast album 100 times too many at this point.

“And we can get Thai for dinner?”

“Fine,” R says, chuckling. “But I have to say, you’re really thinking small, here.”

Enjolras turns in his seat, pulling his legs up pretzel style and adjusting his seatbelt so the strap sits behind him. “Fair point. In that case - we could rob a bank?”

“Aside from the frankly shocking capitalist implications there, I don’t think I’d be a very good getaway driver.”

“You’re right,” Enjolras says. “You’d make a horrible getaway driver.”

Grantaire shakes his head, but he’s smiling widely.

Enjolras looks out the window, watching houses slide past him with peeling white paint and crooked mailboxes. The road ahead is flat and stretches away into the horizon. His hair catches in the wind, whipping into his face and sticking to his lips. The air tastes crisp and fresh and new. Enjolras hums along with the music.

He thinks, _okay_. Grantaire is bathed in sun. The road seems endless and open. _Okay_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on tumblr if ya want: [wise-up-eyes-up](http://wise-up-eyes-up.tumblr.com)
> 
> Edit: My old blog (screwsfalloutt) is inactive bc my college email address is gone and tumblr literally won't let me recover the blog without it. So I'm a bit salty because I lost 6 years of posts and followers :'( but here's to new beginnings. Come drop a note in my inbox, let's be friends!


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